…made an appearance at the first annual muse party that was held in conjunction with Talking Fresh 5. I have never tried Absinthe, but I did at the party, thanks to the muse shirted Brenda and Harvey Schmidt. B & H each made their own muse shirts, Brenda’s a lovely yellow shirt with a picture of her artwork, part of a painting she said, of H’s head, upon which was written a lively limerick edited by none other than the infamous George Murray and John MacKenzie, and H had a white shirt which held dictionary definitions of the word muse (so, pictures of these super shirts would be nice seeing as the host didn’t have the time to get any, hint, hint). Also, there was talk of an edgier limerick that didn’t make the shirting. Perhaps another time/place/muse. Another muse party goer, Annette Bower, brought me my muse of flowers (they’re still standing at attention on the fireplace mantle, as if waiting for another party). Next year will be bigger and better I figure, now that I’ve got the green fairy lurking about the house, and of course, the first year’s goers are ready to outdo themselves in creating their muse, which should encourage new muse-goers to create a-musing muses.

Talking Fresh, of course, was terrific. This was my fifth partial attendance; I didn’t make it to the panel on Friday afternoon, but I went to the readings, which were fresh and interesting. Maybe one of these years I can attend the complete event. Saturday was a full day of interesting conversational style discussions with each of the authors. The topic on hand was faith and the wonderful audience participation/interaction provided many intriguing insights and thought-provoking moments. The weekend was a great success for the 5th time, so thanks to those responsible for providing such a great literary exchange.


In another note, I will be leaving on my research adventure soon enough (2 weeks and counting–don’t know if I’ll be able to provide any blogging while away, but perhaps if I can swing it, a pic or 2).

And speaking of treks, I’m planning to follow this blog this summer as Suzanne Steele and her family trek to raise money for Victoria’s NICU.

Semba!: A Notebook

“Losing your way in writing is good and bad. Good is the possible finding of the way back, that shifty process of discovery, disclosure, random foraging. But being lost is free fall. You’re out of control. One morning you wake to the sort of day or condition of soul when sensation is so heightened that it awes and frightens. Foliage whisking outside the window sounds like big breakers hitting the beach; bird-song so magnified it seems aberrant, more inside than outside the skull; bus doors hiss shut like pressure valves exploding; a plane so high and silent that it looks about to vaporize. Everything terribly keyed-up, and you feel at once exposed and protected. Your ears mute the sound and resonance of your own voice—you’re talking into a scarf or stiff wind.”

by W. S. Di Piero


…must be made this week, life must change/alter/defy the ordinariness we impose upon it. Because of this, I’m asking myself what it means to have money, to use money, to be entrenched in a cultural system that requires money. What if we bartered our services? I’m thinking of the guy that bartered his way up to a house. Why don’t we have more bartering in our systems? Or do we, and we just don’t recognize the non-monetary system?

And in celebration of Rhett’s new reading/open mic series Soundlines (how did it go?) I found this site online. I wonder if one can barter a poem for a meal? This could come in handy.


…THIS week has crawled along painfully slow as I attempt a re-entry into the real world. This means that I’ve been trying to write from a noisy room while construction occurs on the rest of the basement, trying to do 3 weeks of work (barbering) in one week, trying to do 3 weeks of laundry in one week, trying to listen to 3 people at the same time, trying to listen to my new cd at the computer (Serena Ryder’s latest) (the post title is a line from “This Wheel’s on Fire”, a song written by Bob Dylan and nicely redone by Ms Ryder, and the title of the new cd) with my new headphones because I stepped on the old ones (I didn’t hear it happen because the sound of the whirling saws drowned completely the sickening crunch underfoot), trying to figure out how to get the cd that’s in the car stereo unstuck (all part in parcel with the fact that I left the car lights on for the first time this year (which is great, because last year by this time, I’d left the lights on approximately 5 times) and the stereo does strange things after resuming power, say, like eating my cd), and trying to figure out how to work a tab/right hand margin for a table of contents in word ’03(blech).

So yeah, things are pretty much rolling normally along.

One month and counting to my trip, and I’m excited to the point of buying out Winners just in case I need something for the trip.

Yesterday I had the good fortune of being told by Ariel Gordon that the one of my poems had been shortlisted for the February ‘s Guardian’s Poetry Workshop with Aidan Andrew Dun. I’m pondering his wonderful comments (which is the nicest part of being shortlisted) and curiously contemplating what he means by metaphysical. My customer survey today was asking people what they thought metaphysical was, is, or could be. No one is quite sure what, why or how it is. Hmm. That’s the nature of the world I guess. How metaphysical is that?